


American Made

by ireallyneedthosestamps



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, M/M, Not Beta Read, Peterick, Robot AU, i'm sorry in advance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:21:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7190885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ireallyneedthosestamps/pseuds/ireallyneedthosestamps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete gets lonely and decides to buy a bot, but he kind of totally fucks up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	American Made

It’s not like Pete doesn’t have friends. He has lots of good friends. Just not any best friends, bffs, friends you stay up all night talking to, friends you live with in between relationships or maybe even have a relationship with. And sometimes that gets lonely, you know?

“Just get one of those robot friends, dude,” Gabe tells him through a mouthful of fries. 

“What, like some 9-year-old girl who like My Little Pony too much to be popular?” A robot friend, really? I mean, sure, bots, AI built to look, act, and all together appear as human, are all the rage, but getting one just because you need someone to talk to is ridiculous.

Gabe shrugs. “Well I sure ain’t gonna paint your nails and giggle about boys with you.” Pete throws a fry.

***

Later, though, while Pete’s staring up at his ceiling instead of sleeping, the idea comes back to him. He’s got more than enough money for one, being the owner of a record and clothing label. And it’s not like it’s that embarrassing of an idea. He’s done worse; a lot worse. So why the fuck not?

That afternoon, he drives to the Bot store in LA, deciding to go for it before he changes his mind on the the all together. Inside, everything’s set up like a normal store, except instead of rows of Easy Mac and air freshener there’s aisles full of bots, many of which are surprisingly unique from each other, and all with their eyes closed. Pete shivers, his back beginning to sweat, as he imagines each set opening as he walk past. Yeah, he needs to get this over with quickly.

At first, all Pete can find are kids. There’s toddlers (why would you want to waste money on a walking tantrum attack), teens, 2cnd graders complete with backpacks, 12-year-olds in a perpetual state of awkwardness, but none of them are an age he’s comfortable being friends with. He’s almost 30, for fucks sake.

Panic slowly begins to rise in his throat. Being in stores is bad enough as it is, but with the innumerable amount of lifeless bodies surrounding him, it’s nearly impossible for Pete to keep control of his heartbeat. Luckily, he spots an aisle marked “Adult”, and dives in.

More rows of bots, but at least these ones are in his age group. Pete takes a deep breath. All he needs to do now is pick one that looks cool enough and get the fuck out of here. 

He scans the faces, looking for someone he would approach in real life. One looks surprisingly like Travie, another has a nose so funny Pete wonders if they messed up, but no one really… clicks. Just as desperation begins to take hold, he spots a short, chubby body hidden behind a row of redheads. It doesn’t seem fair to put someone short, just a little shorter than Pete, in the back, and for that reason he decides to drag this one out, pulling at the heavy, cold wrist.

The bot’s eyes snap open, revealing bluish-gold irises that contrast perfectly with his blondish, reddish hair. He stares up at Pete curiously, his wrist suddenly heating up to a normal temperature.

“Hey,” Pete says.

“Hey,” he repeats, voice low and clear.

“You cool with me taking you home?” Pete asks awkwardly. The bot nods, and Pete leads him to the register.

He didn’t actually bother reading the bot’s tag, having no clue what model or what price he is. Pete just shoves his credit card at the cashier and writes a mental note to check later. The cashier hands his credit card back, and Pete and the bot leave.

***

“So, um, do you have a name?” Pete asks in the car.

He shakes his head. “Whatever you want me to be called, uh…” he trails off.

“Just call me Pete,” he says. “And, like, you really don’t have a name? They didn’t give you one, or you don’t have one in mind or anything?”

“No, not really. It’d be nice if someone were to give me one, though.” This dude’s got some sass, Pete thinks to himself. What’s a sassy name?

“What about Patrick? So I can call you Trick,” Pete finally says.

Patrick smiles at him. “Okay.” After a few more minutes of navigating through LA’s traffic (during which Patrick fiddles with the radio like it’s the best thing since sliced bread), they reach Pete’s Hollywood-esq home.

***

“Um, Patrick?”

“What?”

“Can you, um, please get off me?”

Patrick brings his head up from where he was licking against Pete’s neck, looking into his eyes. He cocks his head. “So you don’t want to have sex?”

Pete blanches. “N-no, I just want to be friends.”

“Then why did you want to take me home?” Patrick furrows his eyebrow.

“So we can, I don’t know, chill.”

“Chill?”

Suddenly the pieces fit together in Pete’s mind. The “Adult” section, the (Pete’s embarrassed to admit he noticed) lush lips, this whole thing going on right now. Fuck, he picked up a sexbot by accident, didn’t he? “Yeah, chill, and if you get off me so we can sit down, I’ll explain it to you.”

“Okay.” Patrick steps back, letting Pete step away from the wall and sit down on the couch a few feet away. Patrick follows.

“So, do you, you know, eat and drink and stuff?” Pete asks.

“Yeah. My engine’s run on organic fuel mixed with water, so I basically work just like you. Including the whole sleeping thing. But,” Patrick looks Pete square in the eye again, eyebrows still scrunched together. “I’m not really sure what that has to do with anything.”

Pete shrugs. “Just wondering if I could get you anything.”

“Oh. Well, that’s nice. Thanks. But I’m fine.” Patrick continues to look at Pete expectantly. He sighs. Guess he’s got to explain the concept of relaxation to a robot today. Not really what he expected when he got out of bed this morning.

“So, like, you know what people do when they’re not working, sleeping, eating, or um, having sex? They just sit around. Watch tv, talk with each other, go online, stuff like that.” Pete scratches his head. He’s not really sure if he’s doing this right.

“So, you want me to do that?” Patrick says after a moment.

“Yeah. Let’s chill together, Trick.” Patrick nods, and Pete grins. “Cool. Be right back,” Pete says as he gets up from the couch and heads to the kitchen. He knows Patrick says he was good, but Pete’s hungry and he figures he might as well get that tub of grapes out of the fridge before they get old. And a bottle of soda, because Pete’s still a child at heart and considers Dr. Pepper to be the best drink ever apart from coffee. As he’s rummaging through his refrigerator (he should really throw out that expired milk, oops), he notices a shadow moving across the floor out of the corner of his eye. Patrick wanders into the kitchen, looking around at everything like it’s some sort of art exhibition.

“You could have stayed on the couch,” Pete says, finally finding the tub of grapes. He closes the door and turns around to find Patrick standing right behind him, looking at the magnets stuck to his fridge.

Patrick shrugs. “It was boring out there. Oh, you play bass?” he points to an old picture of Pete with Arma Angelus, the band he used to “play” in when he was way too young.

“Yeah, I did back when I was a teen. Haven’t played in years.” That’s a lie, though. Sometimes when the nights are too long and his mind is going too fast, he’ll pick up his old, dented bass and play. Nothing good, and nothing original, but anything counts, right?

“Cool,” Patrick smirks. Not a cocky smirk, but the smirk that happens when you’re trying not smile but it just leaks out of the corner instead. “I like music, it’s like my thing.”

Pete starts walking back to the living room. “Aside from fucking?” As soon as the words come out, he immediately regrets it. You’d think after 29 years he could learn to filter his words better, but nope.

Patrick doesn’t seem to mind, though. “Yeah, aside from that.” He follows Pete out of the kitchen, flicking the light switch on and off with great interest. Pete holds back a chuckle, already forgetting his slip-up. He flops back down on the couch and grabs the remote. Patrick sits down cautiously next to him, watching as Pete simultaneously pops a grape into his mouth and switches through the channels. He finally settles on some mindless reality tv show. He offers a grape to Patrick, and when he refuses, he shoves it into his own mouth.

“So this is chilling?” he asks Pete.

“Yep, this is chilling.” Pete looks over and sees Patrick still sitting perfectly upright. “Just relax, man, okay?”

Patrick looks over, and tries his best to mimic Pete’s boneless position. “Okay.”

***

The next day, Patrick stops following Pete everywhere (especially after a small shower incident) and wanders around the house instead. The place is way too big for just Pete, built more for a large, rich family than someone like him. So Pete was surprised when Patrick had managed to find his room full of music and old band memories at only 2 in the afternoon.

Patrick looks up from the red and black bass, immediately becoming flustered. A small pink glow begins to rise up his neck. “Sorry, I just saw it and I-”

“No no, it’s fine,” Pete says as he sits down across from the stool Patrick’s sitting on, the one piece of furniture in the room. “I never play it enough. Is it still in tune?”

“I tuned it.” Patrick shifts the bass around on his lap, the paint reflecting a dull glare into the ceiling.

“Dude, play something!”

“No!” He puts the bass back on its small stand on the floor and gets up, looking around at all the old CDs, vinyls, band tees, and photos scattered around in small cardboard boxes. “Nice collection,” he says as he picks up Pete’s scratched-up copy of Dookie. 

“Come on, man, you can’t just walk into my house and play my bass and then not let me listen.”

“Why would you want to listen to a robot play?” Patrick asks, refusing to turn around. “Besides, I can’t really play something good on just a bass.”

Pete doesn’t care about this machine vs human nonsense. Or at least, he tries his best to ignore it. “If I got you a guitar would you play me a song?”

Patrick sighs. “Fine.” he leaves the room, heading down to Pete’s kitchen for the fourth time today. For some reason, it’s his favorite spot.

Pete sit down on the stool, running a hand through his hair. He hasn’t told anyone about Patrick yet, but he knows he has Gabe and a couple other friends coming over in a couple days, so he can’t just pretend he doesn’t have a sexbot-turned-chillbot in his house. Oh well, he’ll face that when he has to. For now, he can just act like Patrick’s his grumpy roommate. 

Time to go guitar shopping.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an AU that floated around for a bit on patreek's tumblr. I'm not sure right now exactly where I'm going to take this, so sorry if the tags are a bit sparse. Feel free to comment any suggestions on this. Thanks for reading! <3


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